Eyes Wide Open
by Aries Draco
Summary: Kink meme 2009, in progress. America gets stalked. He finds himself waking up with no memories of the nights before, with marks on him he cannot remember. It gets worse. Things are moving towards a conclusion. Chapter 20 up. Updates when I can!
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Because I have been feeling very uninspired lately, I thought I would post this up slowly while I work on the ending. This was originally written on the kink meme way back in 2009, but I never got around to finishing it. Here's hoping that I will be able to complete this without another 3 year break. For those who have seen this before, don't spoil it for the new readers. ^_^

Additional note as of 8th Feb 2012: Since having an 'M' rating on a fic about a stalker who drugs the person he's stalking and leaves 'marks' during the night is apparently not obvious enough, I give you this warning:

This story is about using date-rape drugs so that Mr. Stalker can have sex with America while he's sleeping.

It also contains mentions of drug use.

And people drink a lot of alcohol too.

ANY OTHER WARNINGS I NEED TO SPELL OUT?

He had a dream. It was a nice dream, he decided as sleep relinquished its hold on him, because he was pretty sure it wasn't a nightmare, even if the details eluded him. Or maybe it _was_a nightmare, a particularly devious one that was hiding its face from him, because, for some reason, his body was aching, even though he didn't have the time to do much the day before. There was yet another boring meeting, awesome hamburgers for lunch (because it was his turn to do the catering), more meetings, and then...

And then?

He frowned, eyes still pressed firmly shut. What did he do after the meeting? What did they usually do after meetings? Dinner? Drinks? Drinks! Right, he probably went drinking, which would explain the blanks in his memory. Sure, he rarely drank to oblivion, but even heroes had off-days, right? And though he could hold his drink (much better than England, hah!), it wasn't impossible for him to get this drunk.

Just as he thought about it, his stomach gave a little lurch and he leapt off the bed, hands pressed to his mouth to contain the nausea. Instead of hitting the carpeted floor, he collided straight into something like a brick wall. _"A wall with arms?"_he thought hazily as his appointment with the floor was temporarily postponed. But there wasn't time to think too much on it, because the contents of his stomach was desperately trying to escape the confines of his body, so he pushed off and stumbled toward the bathroom.

He didn't get far. For some reason, his legs had decided that it was the perfect moment to mutiny and he just couldn't put them in the right positions (one in front of the other, how hard was that?). Once more, he was caught before he could hit the floor. He was escorted to the bathroom, half-dragged, half-carried, really, where he dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and bade farewell to the remains of his dinner.

Funny, he hadn't drunk this much since the Prohibition, and he'd _never_had a hangover this bad before (except for that one time that he preferred not to recall), and... there really wasn't any reason for him to have drunk this much, right? He tried to push through the fog of his memory to find some answer, but his head hurt and his knees were beginning to hurt and his mouth tasted like puke.

A glass of water was pushed into his hand, which he accepted gratefully, rinsing out his mouth then gulping down the rest of the glass.

"More?"

He nodded, offering up the glass. He heard the tap and vaguely, it occurred to him that, oh, right, someone was in the room with him. But then the second glass was offered to him and he became too occupied with slaking his thirst to care.

The glass was followed by a damp towel, which he used to wipe his face. The coolness against his skin banished some of the fog in his mind and he came to the realisation that he was stark naked.

And there was a stranger in his room.

In a flash, he was on his feet, the towel around his waist, spinning around to face the invader. Unfortunately for him, the room was spinning faster than he was and, for the third time that morning, he ended up getting caught as he fell.

"There is no need to be worrying, America. We are friends now, da?"

He couldn't open his eyes, because the room was _tilting_, but he knew that voice, he _knew_it. It made his stomach do flips. Or maybe that was just because he'd been picked up like a little child and carried. Before he could gather his wits enough to put up a struggle, he found himself on his bed, the person looming over him like a vulture.

Putting the covers up around him. Tucking him gently into bed.

Something... something was wrong. Something was really wrong, but his brain was protesting the hard work he was trying to put it through.

"I won't hurt you," he thought he heard the person say. A kiss was pressed to his brow (the faint scent of alcohol) and it was oddly comforting.

"Russia, I'd kill you before you can even try," he mumbled sleepily.

He thought he heard a chuckle in reply, but sleep reclaimed him to shield him a little longer from his troubles, and he gladly returned to the fold.


	2. Chapter 2

America was just gorgeous when he was sleeping. Oh, sure, he was _always_ gorgeous, the golden boy with the infectious smile and eyes as blue as the endless sky they were always affixed on. Somehow, though, he seemed even more beautiful asleep, and he just couldn't resist leaning in to steal another kiss. And another. And another. America made a small sound, lips curling slightly into a smile, causing the butterflies in his stomach to renew their fluttering.

Why had he waited so long to do this?

He'd been so afraid, so worried that he wasn't good enough, that he wouldn't be good enough for America. After all, America was a hero! He'd seemed almost invincible during the Cold War, and even after, while he... huh, what was he? Not even twenty years out of Communism. There was no way, absolutely no way he could even compare.

Or so he thought.

His face was beginning to hurt, but he couldn't stop smiling, just looking down at America's sated, sleeping face and smiling. He'd only intended to do this once, to feel it once, to create a memory to lock away and treasure forever, but America enjoyed it, didn't he? America enjoyed _him_.

And he would willingly give himself over and over again if it could make America so happy and satisfied.

"Love you," he whispered, heart beating so fast, so exuberantly that he thought it might burst. "Love you, love you, love you."

If America was awake, surely he'd reply with the same, right? But since he was sleeping, it was better to let him rest.

Giggling softly to himself, he gave the sleeping man one more kiss, retrieving his vodka bottle from the nightstand. Yes, he would let his dear America rest.

After all, there was always tomorrow.


	3. Chapter 3

Like a true hero, he was right as rain, fit as a fiddle by the time the next chapter rolled about. The second time he fought off sleep to rejoin the land of awakening, he found himself refreshed, if desperately in need of the toilet and a couple of glasses of water. As if to reward him for suffering through that morning, there was even a note on the nightstand informing him that the morning meetings were cancelled because it turned out that _everybody_ was suffering from a hangover that morning. Though he still couldn't remember exactly what happened during the night, his imagination worked to fill in the blanks with amusing images of a drunk England blabbing out his innermost secrets (again).

All in all, he felt great. So great, in fact, that he decided to take the short walk from his hotel to the meeting venue instead of breaking out his favourite SUV, the one that had Germany nagging at him every time the man came over. It was a wonderful day, one of those days when the sky seemed to go on forever, even when viewed from within the confines of a city. After this summit, maybe he could take a vacation, borrow one of their awesome fighter jets... but what were the chances of that? Lately, it was beginning to feel like he was always busy with one thing or another. He wasn't exactly unhappy about it, because people were starting to like him again for his work, and he did enjoy helping out his current boss, but... well...

It was too nice a day to spoil with non-happy thoughts, so he put them out of his mind, smiling, waving and saying 'hi' to anyone who met his eye. While most of the people merely stared at him as if he was insane, some smiled back and walked on with a renewed spring in their steps. And maybe those who smiled back would go on to smile at other people, who would go on to smile at other people until everyone was smiling and happy. Even if it was a naive hope, he liked to believe that it could happen.

Walking, he realised, brought him to the meeting room faster than if he had driven, though he conveniently ignored the fact in favour of bouncing into the room to check if he was the first.

He wasn't.

Russia was already there, sipping vodka from a bottle.

Russia. America frowned briefly, trying to remember what it was about Russia that was so important. Something about... a glass? Glasses? The note? Of course! He was so brilliant!

"Why are you drinking? I thought the meeting was postponed so that everyone could get over their hangovers?"

A slow smile spread over the Russian's face, one that usually sent most other countries cowering. It wasn't that the smile was particularly sinister, no. In fact, viewed on its own, it could be called 'sweet' or even 'adorable'. On a man as large and imposing as Russia, though, it looked as out of place as a baby in a lion's mouth. The fact that that particular smile was usually the prelude to some terrible revelation no doubt also contributed to its scariness. America, however, was unaffected.

"Yes. This morning, when I come here for the meeting, there was no one being here, so I go to look for them." Russia took another sip of the vodka, grinning around the lip of the bottle. "But I, I am not getting hangovers, you know?" He leaned forward, as if bending close to tell a secret. "I don't stop drinking long enough for them to catch me."

America blinked at this titbit of information. "Oh, I get it! You only get a hangover _after_ you stop drinking!" It made sense! You certainly didn't get a hangover _while_ drinking. It was perfectly logical. Almost. "But it means you're going to be drunk during the meeting."

"Of course!" replied the Russian matter-of-factly, still grinning that grin that never reached his eyes.

America would have said something, but at that moment, the doors opened to admit a rather pissed off England followed by a smirking France. The others soon followed and by the time the meeting had been called to order loudly by Germany (causing more than a few winces due to lingering hangovers), he'd forgotten all about his conversation.

A/N: I think I've got the troublesome parts in the middle sorted out, so this fic should be able to get completed eventually. /winces. Not like many of the others I have on my account. Now, before anyone gets too bored, I'm just going to come out and say it:

The stalker is not Russia. Sorry guys, that would be way too obvious for someone like me.

Now, let me not trouble you too much with notes, and let you carry on with the story.


	4. Chapter 4

Today, America smiled at him. _At_ him. At _him_. For a moment, he panicked, wondering if America remembered anything from the night before. Fortunately, it didn't seem to be the case, though America seemed really, really happy all day.

The only downside to this was that America was smiling at everyone else too. Liet had told him before, reminiscing about his time spent under America's employment, that America was just like that. When he was happy, he wanted everyone to be happy with him. When he'd pointed out that that sounded rather idiotic, that it was impossible to make _everyone_ happy, Liet just smiled sadly.

_"At least he tries."_

Liet. Liet loved America too, right? And America, the eternally clueless America, could remember Lithuania's name. Was there something there? Liet'd denied it when he asked, but of course he would deny it. Liet _knew_ that he was totally head over heels for America, so there was no way he'd ever admit it. After all, Liet used to be his too, and he knew well enough not to fight with him over the things he wanted.

But things were going well, so he could leave Liet alone for now. There was no need to concern himself with other people, now that he had America. And if America could say that back to him, then life would be utterly perfect.

He waited and watched throughout the meeting, hoping and wishing that America would smile at him and talk to him again, but America seemed more interested in teasing England and talking to just about everyone else. As usual. It was enough to make his blood boil.

He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was the one who slept with America, he was the one who made America feel good in bed, and no one else could take his place like that. And he would remind America again, tonight, about how good it felt, and maybe, tomorrow, America would smile at him again.

In his pocket, his fingers tightened around a pack of pills.


	5. Chapter 5

He didn't know why his stomach was making such a huge protest about taking another bite of the hamburger, but he thought maybe it was time to ban trade unions. His body wasn't allowed to go on strike! He wasn't France, after all. But somehow, not even the extra bacon and cheese helped rouse his appetite, so he spent the rest of his lunch hour sipping listlessly at his coke.

"You are not feeling well, America?"

America glared, though he absolutely did not pout. Last night, he'd felt so energetic that he tried to invite everyone out for another night out. Most of them declined. England told him to take some cough syrup and go to bed like a good boy, so naturally, he had to do something completely contrary.

He went to a bar. A vodka bar, because he had a sudden craving for vodka mixers. It was all Russia's fault, of course, for drinking that thing in front of him all day. And recommending the bar. And offering to show him there.

Originally, he'd decided that he was going to have one drink, just one to help him sleep, but when he got there, he spotted Lithuania with a couple of other nations and he just had to go over to say 'hi'. Somewhere during the introductions, which were kind of pointless, considering he was never going to be able to remember all their names, Russia managed to slip off.

The rest of the night was a bit of a blur, no doubt because of all the flowing vodka, and, while it was fun at the time, the morning had been hell. He couldn't even remember how he ended up in bed.

"This is your fault," he declared, sinking down bonelessly onto the tabletop. "I can't even eat a hamburger."

The smile on the Russian's face never faded, not even as he beat a hasty retreat. America continued to not pout, burying his face in his arms.

He had to look up again when he felt someone sitting opposite him.

"Is better to eat soup when you are having the hangover," said Russia pleasantly, pushing the tray over to him. On it was a plate of hot soup and a cup of tea.

America narrowed his eyes, then gave up when the action gave him a headache. "I don't drink tea," he protested lamely, reaching for the spoon. "And soup is not better than burgers."

"This is not being English tea," replied the Russian, grinning away like a Cheshire cat. "It is camomile, to settle the stomach, with honey, to counter the alcohol."

America eyed the drink suspiciously. He didn't feel quite up to eating even soup, so he decided to try out the tea first. It gave off a gentle, soothing fragrance, very much unlike English tea and he brought the cup up to his lips. Then passed it to Russia, who looked amused.

"You are thinking I put poison in the tea?"

"I am thinking you still look a little Red around the corners."

Something darkened a shade in those violet eyes, but the smile merely parted around the rim of the cup, taking a nice, big mouthful to demonstrate that it was perfectly safe. Only after he watched the Russian swallow did he try the drink for himself.

It tasted mostly of honey with a hint of something vaguely medicinal. While the taste was nothing to crow about, the scent was relaxing and America found himself feeling a little better as he sipped at this not-tea.

"Is good, da?"

"It's ok," said America grudgingly. He picked up a spoonful of soup and held it up as well.

Russia obliged, violet eyes fixed to his as that mouth closed over the spoon.

He swallowed at the same time Russia swallowed. "Are you... trying to flirt with me?" he demanded, pulling the spoon back.

Russia seemed to consider this. "Um... yes. Pretty much. Yes." He smiled widely when America gaped at him. "I am trying to get more tourists to come to spend their tourist money, so is like flirting, da?"

Oh. OH. Something akin to disappointment fluttered across his chest, but he overrode it with relief. Russia was just being nice for tourism! Ah... "Well, I have been wanting to take a vacation. What's fun at your place?"

"It depends on what America considers 'fun', da?" replied Russia, returning to his usual smiling state. "After all, Russia is a very big country, da?"


	6. Chapter 6

He'd worried for a bit about how he was going to get the pills into America, but things worked out in the end: America didn't suspect a thing. Everyone thought he was really sweet and considerate for volunteering to send America back to the hotel, but the best part was that America himself thought that he was really sweet and considerate to send him home.

America was really being really grabby, which was a good sign. It showed that America missed him already. And this time, it was America who made the first move, nuzzling against his neck and giggling.

"You... yooooooooooouuuuu! You smell like vodka!"

He ran his fingers through that golden hair, pulling America back so that he could do some kissing. "Vodka totally doesn't have its own smell," he told America, though the glazed look in those eyes told him that the man probably wouldn't remember that simple fact by the morning. But that was fine, so long as they had the night.

"You taste like vodka," mumbled America against his lips, licking his lips. "I think I liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike vodka."

It was a confession, wasn't it? It was. It really was. He'd thought then that nothing could spoil it, nothing could spoil the love between the two of them.

Then came morning, and America was being his usual flirty self again. Maybe not quite as flirty, considering it looked like he was suffering from a bad hangover, but wasn't it cruel to flirt at all when you already had a partner? And they'd gone all the way too! It wasn't like they were just playing around like some other people.

If one thing good came out of all the flirting, it was that he would get another chance to make love to his darling America. The summit was almost over, and he'd been so worried that he wouldn't be able to see America again once he had to go home, but it seemed that America had agreed to follow them home.

The next time, next time, he would make it clear to America that his feelings were not meant to be toyed with. Next time, he wasn't going to be so nice. He would have to make sure that America _remembers_.


	7. Chapter 7

Normally, he hated plane rides. He hated the seats (he couldn't stretch out his legs), he hated the smell (what _was_ that, anyway?), and he hated the food (they never served hamburgers). And the windows were so tiny! It felt like he was in a huge metal prison.

What was the point of flying when you couldn't see the vast expanse of the sky in front of you, above you, below you, all around you? When you couldn't taste the freedom that flight promised? He would much rather be piloting a plane than sitting in one.

But by the time the plane touched down in Moscow, he was beginning to think that flying commercial wasn't all that bad. For the first time in days, he was actually feeling well-rested.

Then again, this _was_ supposed to be a vacation, and a vacation was for relaxing. He'd been working too hard lately. Even his boss admitted that he'd been working him quite hard lately, which was why he could have a vacation at all in the first place. He did receive instructions to 'conduct some unofficial diplomatic relations' while he was in Russia, but his boss assured him that all he had to do was to keep out of fights and avoid pissing Russia off if he could.

Immigration took awhile, and, by the time he got out, whatever good the plane ride had done him had been completely undone.

And Russia wasn't even there to pick him up.

America stared out into the crowds, suddenly feeling very lost. After a moment, it occurred to him that he still had his mobile with him and that he could actually _call_ the Russian. Right! Why didn't he think of that earlier? Before he managed to dial though, he thought he heard someone calling his name.

"Mr America?"

"Ah, Lithuania! What are you doing here?"

Lithuania jogged towards him, looking torn between relief and worry. "W... well, we heard that you were coming to Eastern Europe, and I thought, maybe, I'd invite you over to my house. I mean, um, you're welcome to drop by. If you like."

"That sounds like an awesome idea!" Even though Lithuania smiled at his answer, he could tell that the man was nervous. Those green eyes darted from side to side, never resting on one spot for too long. Was he worried because they were in Russia? But he was here with a hero! Throwing an arm around the man, America grinned. "In fact, let's go now!"

"E... eh?"

"Because it seems that Russia's forgotten that I'm coming today..."

"Who's forgotten?"

He felt Lithuania literally jump, but he didn't even bother turning around. "You're late."

"I did not see you come out, America," replied Russia. "But now I have found you, we can go, da?"

"I think I'd rather go with Lithuania."

"I think Lithuania needs to go home."

Now, he did turn around, glaring at the Russian. As he did, he realised why he hadn't spotted the man earlier.

He was used to seeing Russia in thick, bulky coats, and, more recently, in suits. He was definitely not used to seeing Russia in nothing more than a light turtleneck and a pair of very well-fitted jeans. Very, _very_ well-fitted.

Lithuania removed his arm from around him, casting a quick, fearful glance at the Russian. "Mr America? If you are coming over, I have to go back and prepare. S... so maybe you should go with Mr Russia first."

On one hand, he still felt like slighting Russia for making him wait, but, on the other, he didn't want to put Lithuania in a spot. Even if he didn't know the exact history between those two, he knew that Russia used to terrorise the nations behind the Iron Curtain, and that Lithuania was one of them. As the hero, he'd done his part to break up the Soviet Union and give independence back to those who deserved it, but real life didn't usually work out as well as comics. Just because the villain was beaten, didn't mean that he was gone. Just because he hadn't re-risen, didn't mean that the effects of his evil deeds didn't linger on.

Then, the Russian laughed softly. "If you are wanting to go to Lithuania, the earliest flight is tomorrow morning," he pointed. "So you will both let me look after you for tonight, da?"

He felt the sudden tension in Lithuania's body, so he casually reached out for a sideways hug. "Only if we can have burgers for dinner!"

Russia just smiled.

A/N:

This thing about America and the sky was firmly embedded into my head-canon from a fic I read a long time ago.

Russia's outfit here because I read that Russian guys tend to be well-dressed. Also, tight jeans. Mm. The turtleneck comes from the turtleneck + suit combo that his bossman liked to wear at that time.

Incidentally, the setting for this fic is sometime in late 2009, for no real reason other than because I started writing it back then. You could say that the fic was influenced by the setting? ^_^


	8. Chapter 8

_Why was America all over Liet?_

Liet swore! He swore that he wasn't interested! And he even _promised_ to help! And yet, right here, right before his eyes, Liet was _flirting_ with America!

He dug his fingers into his palms and tried not to scream. He should have done something about Liet earlier, should never have trusted that anyone could resist America's charms... yes. It was partly America's fault too, wasn't it? Tonight... tonight, he had to make things clear. To Liet, to America.

The night couldn't come fast enough.

_They had adjoining rooms._

He managed to corner Liet without anyone noticing, and, as usual, the man was full of excuses. Later, later. If he did anything now, America would notice. Instead, he reminded Liet that he was the one who loved America. He was the one who'd been pining and pining for years over the golden boy, who'd never even had the chance to properly work with him. And Liet hurried to placate him, as always, though he knew, he just knew that Liet was lying.

Even so, there were more important things to attend to.

A cup of hot chocolate. Made with all his love. He had Liet bring it over for America. For good measure, he gave Liet a cup too, laced with sleeping pills. After all, he didn't need to be disturbed.

He tried to be rough, but he couldn't help himself when America whimpered so prettily. He didn't want to hurt his beloved: he wanted America to enjoy it as much as he did.

He was nearly late leaving, caught up in just watching America sleep, stroking that soft blond hair and smoothing away the small frowns that kept appearing on the man's face. America would be leaving with Liet, come morning. America would be going over to Liet's house. Then again, Liet's house was almost his house too.

He could keep an eye on them. Comforting himself with that thought, he gave the sleeping man a last kiss then pulled himself unwillingly away. It was nearly dawn.


	9. Chapter 9

This was not his bed.

America sat bolt upright, looking around the unfamiliar room. Where was he? He wasn't home: he was in another country. Why? How did he get here? Where was 'here' anyway?

The room was so hot.

Luggage. His luggage was in a corner, the red, white and blue one that was unmistakably his, unmistakably American. The one he was only allowed to carry on vacations and not on official trips because it was "potentially offensive", even though there was really nothing wrong with being patriotic. So he was on vacation. He'd been meaning to go on vacation, and now he was, only that he hadn't the slightest clue where he was.

His head snapped around when he heard the knock on the door, hand reaching instinctively under the pillow for a gun that wasn't there. No, guns weren't allowed on planes. And he wasn't home. He was...

"America? Are you awake?"

Russia. He was in Russia. He just arrived yesterday afternoon. Russia brought them out for food. At a McDonalds. They toured the city. Russia invited them over to his home, but he insisted on a hotel. And then... then...

He was in a hotel. Russia was outside the door. Outside, knocking. Oh. He had to open the door.

Was this just jet lag? Had he overexerted himself the day before? Was he drinking? Licking his lips, he tasted vodka, but he was pretty sure... pretty sure...

No, he wasn't. He wasn't sure about anything at all. But it was alright, because heroes always got their memories back in time to fight the villain. Villain? Hadn't he gotten rid of all of them? Knock, knock!

The door. Right. He was on the bed, he was at the door, he was falling into warmth. 


	10. Chapter 10

This was not his bed.

His left hand ached. When he raised it up to see what was wrong with it, he realised that the world was glowing fuzzily because he didn't have his glasses on. Where was Texas?

And why was he hooked up to an IV?

Had he been abducted? By the unfriendly aliens Tony had told him about?

"Ah, America, you are awake."

Oh. It was only Russia.

Russia?

Russia?

America tried to sit up, only to put too much weight on his left hand, sending pain shooting up his arm and causing him to fall back onto the bed. A warm hand on his forehead prevented him from trying again.

"You need to be staying still. Look, your hand is bleeding."

"Where are my glasses?"

He'd half-expected to be denied, but Russia helped him put Texas back on and even helped him sit up while a doctor checked the needle to make sure that he hadn't torn anything. Looking around, it finally sank in that he was in a hospital. Brow creasing, he tried to recall _why_ he could have ended up in one. Vodka?

"Did I get drunk?" he asked, half-speaking to himself. Looking up at Russia, he noted with some unease that Russia wasn't smiling.

And neither was the doctor, who seemed to be going through his charts with the nation.

"Rus...Ivan?"

It was like a switch was turned on. The smile snapped back into position as the Russian looked over at him quizzically.

"What happened?" he asked, glancing just a little nervously at the grim doctor. "What's wrong with me?"

"Mm, well," said Russia, browsing the sheets of paper on the clipboard. "It looks like it is nothing. Just low blood pressure." Those violet eyes caught his for a moment before flicking back down onto the paper. "But we would like to run more tests to make sure."

He found it interesting how Russia didn't seem to want to meet his eye. The doctor, also, didn't try to engage either of them in conversation. So he'd probably already discussed with Russia about whatever they were planning.

"Forget it. I'm fine. It's probably just jet lag and too much drinking," said America casually, dismissively. Because he wasn't going to let some Russian quack doctor poke him full of holes.

"But, America..."

"Can I have this out please? My hand hurts."

Russia's hands closed over his and he was surprised to find that they were warm. Somehow, he'd always expected the man to be cold to touch, considering the kind of environment he lived in and the way he was always wearing a scarf around. But Russia's hands were so warm that he just didn't know what to say.

"America? There's no alcohol in your blood."

His first reaction was to laugh, because, it was impossible, right? If he hadn't been drinking, then why did he feel like he had a hangover? Somewhere, in a dark part of his mind, a voice whispered that he hadn't been careful enough, that this was _Russia_ and maybe, maybe this entire vacation was just a ruse to get him into a vulnerable position. The logical part of his mind reminded him that the Cold War was long over, and that Russia had nothing to gain from hurting him.

But people didn't need any good reason to hurt him, did they? He still had the scars to prove that.

Russia let his hand go, leaving him to frown at the slightly bloodied tape holding the IV needle in him.

"We are investigating the possibility of a gas leak," continued the man, still not quite looking at him. "Because Lithuania was also sick this morning."

Lithuania?

Instinctively, America looked around, but the brunette was nowhere to be seen.

Answering his unasked question, Russia gestured vaguely at the wall. "He is in another room."

"I want to see him."

For a moment, he thought he saw something dark flicker across the Russian's face, then it was all smiles again.

"He is resting."

"I want to see him," insisted America. He would have crossed his arms, but the IV tube was still in the way. "Unless there's something you don't want me to see?"

Russia seemed not to hear, striking up a conversation with the doctor instead. So America threw a pillow at him. With some satisfaction, he watched as Russia stumbled from the force of the pillow, which was way too hard to belong in a hospital anyway. He liked his pillows fluffy.

The doctor shot an irate look at him before turning back to Russia, who had picked the pillow up. A few more terse words were exchanged, followed by the doctor leaving the room. And he had Russia's full attention again.

"Well?" he demanded, not caring that the man was wringing the pillow like he wanted to wring somebody's neck. "What was that about?"

"Is not nice to be throwing pillows at people when they are talking, da?" Russia unwound the pillow, giving it a little fluffing before passing it back to America.

"And it's not nice to talk over someone's head when they're trying to talk to you," replied America testily. "It's also not nice to keep me from visiting a friend who is not feeling well."

This time, he was sure that he saw it, the glint of malice flashing in those violet eyes, but when Russia spoke, his voice retained that same sing-song quality it always had, revealing nothing. "I never said you cannot see him. We will be going when you are ready," stated the man matter-of-factly. "Give me your hand. I will take that out for you."

The IV? "Why didn't you get the doctor to do it?" he asked, cradling his hand protectively.

"He is going to check on Lithuania."

"Don't you usually have nurses to do stuff like this?"

There was amusement written all over the Russian's face, underscored by something a little familiar but hard to place. "We are understaffed," explained Russia plainly. "Are you afraid, America?"

Afraid? How dared he? He was a HERO! "No way! Just take it out already!"

When Russia bent over him to remove the sharp, he caught the faint scent of... perfume? Had Russia always smelt this nice? From this distance, he had a good view of the Russian's face, which was, once more, unsmiling, but somehow gentler for it. Violet eyes caught his and, in an instant, the mask was back up.

"Are you ready to go? I will take you to Lithuania now," announced the Russian, straightening up and disposing of the sharp in a bright yellow bin.

It took him a little while to find his voice again, but when he found it, he made sure it was unwavering. "Yea. Let's go."

If he took the Russian's offered hand, it was only because his legs were stiff from too much inactivity, and he didn't want to embarrass himself by tripping on flat ground. "Lead the way."

A/N:

I remember I was reading this guide to work and travel in Russia around the same time as I was writing this. One of the things mentioned was that Russia has a rather good healthcare system, but not enough of it to go around. Also, folk remedies are frequently recommended at casual gatherings. I can't vouch for anything except that I saw it in that book, so, if I've been misinformed, please do raise it., so, if I've been misinformed, please do raise it.


	11. Chapter 11

So, it looked like America was staying for another day. It was not the most ideal of conditions, but there was little he could do to influence it. He would just have to work around the obstacles thrown in his way, as he had done many times before. The one thing that bothered him most was that America had once again insisted on sharing a room with Liet. It was enough to make him nauseous.

Liet had to go.

Away, for a little while, at least. He was simply taking up too much of America's attention. When Liet was around, it was almost like no one else existed. No one else mattered.

But that was wrong. America loved him, right? They'd already shared a few nights together, and he was pretty sure that Liet had never...

Had he? Back when he was working for America, so many things could have happened. Had they been fooling around all this time behind his back, distracting him with cloying words and false promises? Liet... Liet wouldn't...? But Liet was also very bad at saying 'no', and, back then, America didn't have him, did he?

Now that he did, there was really no reason to go back to Liet, right? Liet liked Belarus, for heaven's sake! There was no way he could give all of his love to America, not like him. Or was this a test? Was America just testing him? Then he would demonstrate that Liet was just Liet, but America was his everything.

The hospital was an unexpectedly convenient place, and it helped that Liet had been drugged to within an inch of his life. All he had to do was to draw the curtains and he would have America all to himself. They did have to keep quiet, though, so, with some regret, he gagged America before carrying on.

America was totally his, just as he would willingly give all of himself over in a heartbeat. With that in mind, he pressed his lips against the lightly tanned skin and left his marks.

It was too bad he couldn't stay long that night: he still had to deal with Liet.


	12. Chapter 12

The first thing he did that morning was to run for the bathroom to throw up. There wasn't much in his stomach to empty, because Russia adamantly refused to allow burgers in a hospital, but he just couldn't stop retching. For his money, it was the hospital food. Russia should have just let him eat burgers.

Fighting off his nausea, he pulled himself up to the sink, rinsing out his mouth and splashing water on his face to help him wake up.

His whole body ached and he absently rubbed at a bruise forming on his neck. Maybe it was something about the beds? Something at the back of his mind was screaming for attention while he stared at the tap trying to recall if Russian tap water was drinkable. Probably not. For all he knew, it was radioactive or something.

Stretching out the kinks in his body, he pushed back his hair and put on his glasses.

He was in his boxers.

He was wearing pyjamas when he went to bed. This, he remembered very clearly, because he'd insisted that Russia retrieved them for him.

He was in nothing but his boxers.

There were bruises all over his torso.

He was wearing nothing but his boxers.

His back _hurt_.

He was wearing nothing... oh god.

_Russia._

He couldn't breathe.

_It was Russia. Had to be. Here. No one else could possibly... Russia? Oh, god, Russia. Before? Black outs. Nights forgotten. Russia. Russia was there. How many times? Oh god. Oh God._

The heat was building up behind his eyes and he gasped for breath.

_No, don't panic. Focus. No fear. Get angry._

The face in the mirror looked back at him with deathly calm, even as his heart pounded so hard he was sure it would be audible to anyone.

Find Russia. He had to find Russia.

Slamming the bathroom door open, he found himself looking at a startled Russia. Standing over Lithuania's empty bed.

Lithuania?

Red.

Red filled his vision as he lunged at the Russian, slamming him into the nearest wall by the throat.

"Where. Is. He?"

Fingers scrabbled against his hand, frantically trying to relieve the pressure he was exerting on the man's windpipe. America pressed harder, watching the panic in those violet eyes with a dark spike of vindictive pleasure.

"Don't... know..."

"Don't give me your bullshit! What have you done with Lithuania?"

Russia was desperately trying to shake his head, to deny everything, but, didn't he always? Russia was Russia, after all. No matter how nice he appeared, no matter how good he tried to act, he was the villain of the story, wasn't he?

"What have you done to me?"

He heard his voice crack on the last two words and the heat behind his eyes finally spilled out, blurring his vision and tracing hot streaks down his cheeks.

If it had been violence. If it had been threats. If it had been face to face, man to man... but Commies always fought dirty, didn't they? Commies and terrorists, who hated him on principle, who would hurt him simply because he was _America_...

"A... me... ri..."

He jerked away when Russia touched his face, letting the man collapse on the floor.

"Where is Lithuania?" he demanded again. He was shaking, his voice was shaking and he could barely make out Russia's shape against the white wall.

"A... me... ri... ka... I... didn't..."

The sound of his foot hitting Russia's face was (_shouldn't have been_) so satisfying. But it also meant that Russia was no longer in any condition to answer his questions. Where was Lithuania?

It didn't matter. He was a fucking hero. He would find a way.

Snatching up his clothes (_pyjamas)_, he put them on and began to run.

He didn't know where he was running to, but he definitely wasn't running away. The pain in his chest was from his lungs, expanding and contracting for much-needed air, and from his heart, pumping furiously to fuel his legs. Or maybe it was just heartburn? He wanted to throw up.

He had to find Lithuania.

He didn't even know where to start.

Logic caught up with him somewhere around the fourth street after two corners, and promptly smacked the stupid out of him.

What was he doing? He should have gone around the hospital to ask if anyone had seen Lithuania. Even if his Russian was nonexistent, surely, there would have been at least some people who spoke English. And with Russia out of the way, he might have gotten some answers, or, at the very least, some clues. Was it too late to go back?

Looking around him, he came to the sinking realisation that he had no idea where he was. He had no money, no shoes and was dressed in his red-white-blue pyjamas. He was also still feeling a little dizzy and a little nauseous.

Perhaps, somewhere to sit down would be good, just for a little while.

The weather was surprisingly warm (_just like his hands_), but he wasn't complaining. Better than having to battle the cold on top of everything else. He'd always thought that Russia could only be cold, no matter how ridiculous it sounded in the face of logic. Of course there would be have to be summer, otherwise, how would the crops grow? But, for so long, it'd just been easier to see Russia as cold, barren and heartless.

It was true anyway.

It had to be.

And why on earth was he still thinking about Russia when Lithuania still needed saving?

Pouncing on the new idea with the vigour of a housecat pouncing on a catnip-doped toy mouse, he considered his options. If he caught a cab to his embassy, he could get into contact with some important people who could exert some diplomatic pressure on Russia to give up Lithuania's location. But that would take some time, and, by then, it might be too late. He could also try to retrace his steps and return to the hospital to question the people there, but there was a high chance that he'd get even more lost than he already was. Or maybe he could catch a cab to the hospital and he could get his money to pay the cab-driver with?

He was saved from having to come to a decision by a small prick on his neck. He barely had time to realise that he'd been drugged again before he fell into oblivion once more.


	13. Chapter 13

America looked positively adorable in those stars-and-stripes pyjamas.

He'd been so worried when he found that America was no longer in the hospital, but he quickly realised that it was a blessing in disguise. There were just too many people at the hospital, too many witnesses, and, as careful as he was, he couldn't get away with _everything_. So he packed a couple of syringes of sedatives, said his goodbyes to the nice, but overworked hospital staff, and headed off after America. After all, it wasn't hard to follow someone dressed in such obviously American pyjamas, even if he had a head start and a fast run. All he had to do was ask, and people would helpfully point out the directions.

Then it was just a matter of getting close enough to jab him.

America really was gorgeous when he was sleeping. He was going to look even more gorgeous without those tacky pyjamas and on a nice bed.

With some difficulty, he managed to get America's unconscious body onto a cab. Finally, they could be alone, together, in his house, rather than having to sneak around in hotels. Maybe, after this, they could officially announce their relationship? It would probably be a little embarrassing, but, it would also confirm that America was his and only his, right?

Now that Liet was out of the way, now that no one else would know of America's location, America was all his. Right?

Smiling happily to himself, he wrapped his arms around America's shoulders and gave him a tight hug. Things were finally looking up.


	14. Chapter 14

His eyes were open but he could see nothing.

By touch, he knew that he was bound spread-eagle on a bed, completely naked. The sheets were softer than the cotton he was used to at home, and he could only guess that they were silk or satin. The restraints on his wrists and ankles were also fabric, but strong enough that his wrists and ankles were by now bloody from his attempts to get out. Listening, he knew that he was alone in the room, and that no one had yet entered while he was awake. There were no ambient sounds, which could mean a few things. He could be in a really secluded area, or he could be underground, or he could be both. But the smell was the most telling, the faint scent of alcohol permeating the air.

His glasses were gone, obviously, because someone had put a blindfold over his eyes. Thankfully, there were no new mysterious pains save for the injuries he'd managed to inflict on himself.

He was going to get out of this. Someone would notice that he was missing, and they'd come looking, and Russia would be the first place to look. But Russia was a very big country. So he might be here awhile, no big. He could handle Russia, no problems. Eventually, they would find him, even if they had to raze Russia to the ground in the process of it. And he would have no regrets.

Footsteps.

America tensed, instinctively preparing for a fight, even though he could barely move from his spread-eagle position. The door opened and he heard someone come in.

"Russia, you bastard, let go of me or you're going to regret it!"

He heard a sharp intake of breath, but no further movement. Then,

"You thought I was _Russia_? That's, like, totally uncool! I, like, totally saved you from that scarf-freak!"

That... that wasn't Russia's voice. When his mind was done catching up with his ears, he thought, this could be a good chance.

"Awesome, so, why don't you untie me now before he comes back?" he suggested cheerfully.

Once more, there was a long pause. "But you're totally safe right here, yea?"

What... kind of an answer was that? "Ahaha, but I'm the HERO! I need to be out there, defeating that bastard for the good of all mankind! And I need to go home first so I can get my wonderful toys."

"You don't need to go anywhere," came the quick reply. "Don't worry, I'll, like, totally take awesome care of you. Not even asshole Russia's gonna be able to take you away from me."

The conversation wasn't going anywhere he was expecting it to. Why was this person giving so many strange answers? If he'd been saved from Russia, what was he still doing tied to a bed? "Um... by the way... who are you?"

"You... you don't know?" The voice had faltered, sounding a little hesitant, a little afraid.

America almost felt a little bad, but hey, he couldn't be expected to remember everyone he came across, could he? No, he needed his brain for important stuff, like building giant robots and inventing new and exciting fast foods. "Maybe if you give me a clue, I'll know?"

That person began to giggle and America felt the bed shift. "You, like, totally shouldn't make that kind of joke, you know? You made my heart stop." Before he could even begin to formulate a reply, legs straddled his torso and lips claimed his in a passionate kiss.

His mind blanked.

When the other person drew away, panting lewdly and happily, he found his voice again.

"What the fuck? Who the hell are you? What did you do that for?"

He could feel the person tense against him, felt fingers threading through his hair.

"That joke's, like, really lame, you know, America?"

"I'm not joking! Who the fucking hell are you?"

Yet another moment of silence, of tension, and a splash of tears across his naked chest.

"That's not funny! It's seriously lame, America! How can you not know me? We're lovers, aren't we?"

We're... lovers? Unless... "Who _are_ you?" America pleaded. "Just tell me, _who are you?_"

"How... can... you... not... know... me...?" Each word was punctuated by a sob and he could feel the tears falling onto his chest like raindrops. The voice sounded so heartbroken that, for a moment, he nearly felt like the villain. Then he remembered all the missing nights, and the evidence that he'd probably been _raped_ more than once while he lay unconscious, and he knew that the real villain was... whoever the hell this creep was.

The weight on him vanished as his captor moved off the bed. He half-expected that the blindfold was going to be removed so that he could finally _see_ this mystery person, but all he heard was the sound of drawers being ransacked.

Then, a laugh, high-pitched and nervous. "I know! You were, like, totally brainwashed by that scarf-freak!"

"No, I wasn..." Was he actually defending _Russia_? No, it was just the truth. He hadn't been brainwashed by anyone. He couldn't be brainwashed: he was simply too awesome for things like that. Then again, what was the reason for inviting him for a vacation anyway? Just for the tourist money? But Russia had been paying out of his own pocket for the entire trip, for their meals, for the hotel, for the hospital... everything, except for the plane ticket...

The person climbed on again, like he was some pony to be ridden, and leaned down to hug him. "It's not fair, you know? He's always getting what he wants, and he always wants things that are mine."

"I'm not yours," hissed America. "And he hasn't 'got' me either!"

"See? You don't even remember that we're, like, totally lovers."

"I don't remember _anything_ because you were drugging me!"

"I, like, totally had to! Otherwise, you'd just get distracted by, like, _everyone_."

America was, for once, dumbfounded. There was no reasoning with this person, was there? And the worst part was, he couldn't even imagine who the hell it could possibly be. But this person believed that they were lovers, right? So maybe if he played along... He quashed the notion as quickly as it'd sprung into his mind: he wasn't going to negotiate with fucking terrorists.

"It's not fair," repeated the person. "I love you so much, but you get brainwashed so easily..."

"I _WASN'T_ BR..."

Something cold and thin glided across his skin. For a moment, he couldn't understand what had just happened. Then pain blossomed along the cut and he gasped. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Shhh! I'm, like, trying to work here, you know? Once I'm through, it's gonna be fabulous, and you'll never forget me again..."

He started struggling when the knife touched his skin again, trying desperately to break out of his restraints. "Let me go, you psycho! Let me go! Let me GO! LET ME GO!" But no matter how he protested, how he screamed and bucked and, finally, begged, his captor was unrelenting, tracing those hot, bright lines across his skin until his entire chest was burning.

His palms were wet, the sheets beneath him were wet, and the blindfold was soaked through. Then the person kissed him and told him that it was alright now, but it wasn't. It wasn't.

A/N:

This was the last chapter written in 2009. Mystery solved, end of story, right? But the plot still has some ways to go. It's been drafted out, the remainder of the plot, for quite awhile now, really, just that I tend to get bored when mysteries are over (not that this was much of a mystery), and I couldn't find the motivation to write.

Well, seeing as we do have a chapter 14 just a button-click away, I've gotten over it. I hope.

The reason why Poland's POV didn't contain plenty of 'like, totally' is partly because it would have been way too easy to guess. As to why it's Poland at all, well. I'll tell you later. Or you can guess.


	15. Chapter 15

Cutting onions always made him cry, so he made Liet do it while he prodded at the bread soaking in a quarter cup of milk. They were making hamburgers today, because America loved hamburgers, and Liet knew exactly what America loved. But he was sure he knew better, because, after all, America was _his _lover, not Liet's, so they were doing it his way.

Three-quarters a pound of beef, a quarter pound of pork. Then the onions, and the bread, and a bit of seasoning. Simple, rustic, home-cooked food, cooked with love, for his love.

With the burgers sizzling on the stove and the smell of caramelising meat in the air, he could almost imagine that Liet wasn't over at the sink, absent-mindedly doing the dishes. Hm. Well. No, Liet could stay. He would make a good maid for their little family.

"Hey, Poland, can I go home now? My boss is getting suspicious."

"No way! I, like, totally need your help for, like, everything right now."

Then again, maids were dangerous. There were always stories of the man of the family getting seduced by devious but pretty maids, and Liet and America already had a history… Liet was too dangerous to keep around.

"I live right next door, you know? I can drop by whenever you need me to, so why don't you just let me go home?

_Because you'll totally, like, tell people, duh._

But would it be so bad if he did? Love was something to be celebrated, not something that he had to hide. He should have been glad to be able to announce that he and America were a couple now, and America had moved in, even. It would be a joyous announcement, but… well. America… was not eating well. Yes. America was not feeling well. It wouldn't do, putting any strain on him by drawing attention to him, so they had to keep their relationship low-profile for now. So he couldn't let Liet go out and blab it all out.

"Are the hamburgers, like, done yet?" he asked instead, changing the topic.

"You should check them yourself," admonished Liet lightly. "You're standing right there!"

"Do you think he will like them?"

There was a pause. There was always a pause whenever he asked Liet about America, ever since they both started staying over, because Liet was a horrible worrywart. Just because he wasn't allowed to see America (in case, just in case, because America was such a flirt and Liet was such a nice person), he worried about him, and kept asking for him until he got yelled at. Didn't Liet trust him to take good care of America? Even thought Liet had stopped asking now, those pauses were so telling.

"I… I'm sure he'll love them," replied Liet finally. "Mr America always loves hamburgers."

Then maybe America would eat this time? Grinning brightly at Liet, he nodded cheerfully to himself. The burgers were just about done. Things were gonna be all right.

A/N: recipe adapted from easteuropeanfood(dot)about(dot)com(slash)od(slash)polishmaincourses(slash)r(slash)hamburgers(dot)htm

This is the chapter that took me 3 years to figure out. *Rolls eyes.* Still not my favourite chapter, not even close, but at least it's finally done and I can get on with it.


	16. Chapter 16

There were times he was awake, and then there were times he was asleep, but he couldn't really tell the difference anymore. The world was always dark, whether his eyes were opened or shut. Occasionally, his captor would be in the room too, and he would scream and struggle and feel the needle, and… and…

Sometimes, when his eyes were shut, he would open them thinking he was somewhere else. A hotel room. A hospital bed in Russia. A prisoner of war camp in the pacific. His bed, back in America, still groggy from the nightmare, just open your eyes and embrace the light of the morning, because light chases darkness away, except that there is no light and he was still tied to a bed in god knows where and… and…

He didn't like needles, they hurt and then he couldn't think and things would happen and he must be dreaming because this is a horrible nightmare and he wants to wake up now please, can I wake up now, please?

In his more lucid moments, he would be screaming at his captor. How long do you think you can keep me here?

Forever, of course.

And sometimes, it did feel like forever.

He heard the shouting, the footsteps, the door being slammed open: sounds he'd heard a thousand times in his fantasies, fantasies of being rescued by people who probably didn't even notice he was missing. And then the ropes would be cut and the pain would flare at his torn wrists and ankles, and someone, someone would take off the blindfold and...

It would be a dream, and he could just cry and scream and curse, but that would only tell his captor that he was awake.

"Amerika..."

Which was better? To continue in this dreamworld fantasy and be heartbroken when he had to wake up, or to wake up now and never let it progress?

"Amerika, open your eyes..."

What was the point? All that he would see was darkness, and, if it wasn't, then he would just be dreaming, wouldn't he? It was worse to dream, he decided, because waking up was doubly painful after having a good dream, and he would always wake up in the end.

"Amerika, please!"

Water splashed across his face, in little drips and drabbles, like raindrops falling on his eyelids. Raindrops... so was he outside? But he could still feel the bed under him, the arms wrapped around him, holding him up, gingerly holding him.

"Please wake up!"

Arms? Yes, he could move his. Up, over his face, blindly, until he felt another hand clasp his, pulling it to a warm, wet cheek. Tears, then. Not rain, just...

He opened his eyes. Without his glasses, the world was a blur of light and colour, but still, he could see. He could see.

"Why... is it you?"

Then the world went black again.


	17. Chapter 17

The ceiling was white and his chest itched. He wanted to reach up to scratch, but his arms felt too heavy. Was this another hangover? But he didn't remember drinking. Then again, hadn't this been happening a lot recently? It was probably nothing. He was just tired.

The sheets were crisp and clean, but smelled faintly antiseptic. Like a hospital. What was he doing in a hospital? He turned his head, slowly, because room seemed to be spinning and he didn't want to spin faster than the room, looking for a clue.

"You're awake," stated a familiar voice, worry mingling with undisguised relief. "How do you feel? Do you need a drink?"

America stared blankly at England for awhile before the questions sank in. A drink? A drink would be good. He watched England pour him a glass of water and wondered if all hospitals had jugs sitting on bedside tables, like television told him they did. Probably not. At least, he hadn't seen any in Russia.

Russia?

England was fussing with the bed, helping him to sit up before passing him the glass. His wrists were bandaged and there was an IV drip in his left hand again.

Again.

"My..." glasses. He wanted to say glasses, but he had a feeling the next word trying to slip out didn't start with a 'g'. "Where..."

Texas. England was putting it on for him, and it took him two blinks to see exactly how ashen England's face was, how upset he looked, and then all he saw was blond when England practically threw himself at him.

"Oh God, you idiot, don't ever fucking scare me like that again! Do you have any idea how worried I was? Why didn't you tell me anything?"

What...

The pain hit him like a truck and he instinctively pushed at England, perhaps a little too hard, because the man stumbled back a few steps and nearly fell. He wanted to apologise, but he didn't want to, because it was England.

Why was it England?

It hurt. His entire body hurt, and itched, but he couldn't scratch because of the bandages, bandages everywhere.

"Where am I?" It came out a whisper, as if he was afraid to even ask. Why? Didn't he want to know? Why didn't he already know?

England was hesitating. "We didn't dare to move you too far, so..."

We? "Where am I, England?" he asked again, staring into the sheets, hands clasped together to keep them from trembling. He knew, he already knew, if only he knew what he knew, where...

"We're still in Poland," answered England quietly. Oh, ok. So they were in Poland. "But don't worry, he..."

"England?" he interrupted, causing the man to fall silent. Well, England had a tendency to ramble on, and if he didn't interrupt, he might never get an answer, and this answer was somehow important, even though he wasn't quite sure why. "England, who is Poland?"

He saw briefly the flurry of emotions flashing over England's face and grimaced, bracing himself for the inevitable lecture on his lack of geographical knowledge. Instead, England's face crumpled as if in pain, and the man turned away.

"Please don't tell me you don't remember Poland," said England over his shoulder, a quiver just barely present in his tightly controlled voice. When there was no reply, England tried again. "You were going to build a missile base here to intercept missiles from Iran."

America frowned, looking down at his hands and picking at the bandages. Missiles... yes, his previous boss was planning to put them in Europe. Poland...?

_"You don't... remember me?"_

His injuries.

A name, being carved into his...

He tore at the bandages on his...

His chest was burning, outside, inside, and England was frantically grasping at his hands, trying to keep him from accidentally hurting himself. But he had to see _he already knew what he was going to see_.

He couldn't move his left hand anymore, so he used his right, batting England away, pulling at the white, white bandages when he could until he saw skin and the raw, red letters.

And then he was laughing, or maybe crying, and he didn't know why except that he couldn't stop.

He remembered. He remembered and it made him sick to remember, but even worse than that were the things he couldn't remember, the gaps in his memory filled in by delusions and cold, uncomfortable blanks. He found a wastepaper basket in his hands and he promptly threw up, gagging on nothing.

England held on to him, stroking his hair, his back, repeating over and over that it was alright now, it was alright, but it wasn't, and he tried to tell him, but he couldn't find his voice.

Then the doctor turned up with the syringe in his hands, and, oh god, he was still in Poland and they were going to give him more drugs and England wasn't stopping them and he didn't want any more, he wanted to go home, he wanted to go away, anywhere, anywhere but here and the floor was cold beneath his bare feet, and it hurt everywhere, and he was running, running, running and the floor was no longer under his feet but rushing up to meet his face.

He never hit it.

Instead, he hit something that was not as hard as the floor, but by no means soft. And it coughed, as if trying to recover the breath that had been knocked out of it.

"Ameri-"

"America!" England. And the doctor and nurses and the drugs. In a panic, he struggled to get up, only for his ankles to collapse beneath him.

Again, he was caught before he fell, this time, a little more gently, mindful of his wounds, but he had greater worries. England had nearly caught up with the doctor and the nurses and the drugs and he needed to run away, but he couldn't run anymore and he need to run, he needed to get away, no more drugs, please, no more.

"Amerika," said a voice very quietly by his ear, causing him to look up, into those familiar violet eyes.

"Don't let them get me!"

"Ru… Braginsky."

They had caught up. There was nowhere else to run. Not that he could, even if he'd wanted to. His legs were no longer listening to him, leaving him clinging on for balance with one good hand. _"Russia!"_

Russia looked down at him, then over him, at England and the hospital staff. "They are trying to help you, Amerika."

"Come on, Ame… Alfred. It'll be fine."

He shook his head violently, pressing himself against Russia, away from the syringes, from the strangers. "I don't want them! I d-don't wa-want t-them t-t-to t-touch me..." His fists were clenched so tight, his knuckles were white, and it hurt, it hurt so bad where the IV needle was still stuck. It hurt everywhere, but even so, he couldn't bring himself to mind when the arms around him tightened.

"I will look after him," he heard Russia say from somewhere above his head.

"But...!"

"Please!" He didn't want to look at England, didn't want to know what was the expression on his face. Was he shocked? Was he disappointed? But the very idea that he was in Poland, and the syringes, and he couldn't. He just couldn't. "Arthur, please…"

"…fine. I'll get them to prepare the dressings and fetch a wheelchair."

Relief washed over him like a wave over a castle in the sand, effecting roughly the same result as he all but collapsed in Russia's arms. Russia, who felt so strong, so warm, so _there_. Burying his head against Russia's neck, against the thin scarf, he could smell that perfume, the one he had been wearing before, in the hospital back in Russia. How long ago had that been? No. No, he didn't want to think about that, not now.

He didn't want to get on the wheelchair either, because he wouldn't be able to see who was pushing him, but England offered to push so that Russia could walk beside him, in his line of sight. He hadn't realised that he'd been shivering until Russia suddenly removed his scarf to put around him instead.

He could just about smile, just to say 'I'm ok,' until he caught sight of the fading bruises against the pale skin of Russia's neck. He'd put them there, days ago. Days. Had it only been days? Had it already been days? He felt sick. He felt scared, and he hated feeling scared, so he shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on Russia's scarf, warm around his neck.

Russia...

Russia was the one who pulled him out of that place.


	18. Chapter 18

Now that he was sitting in bed, now that his pillows had been fluffed and tucked fussily behind him by a rather irritated England, now that the required medical supplies had been delivered, and now that the doctor and nurses had left, he had little choice but to start paying attention to that fact that his bandages were, in fact, rather red in places, and barely intact in others.

If he looked down, he could see the letters carved into his chest, and he was somewhat thankful that he couldn't read them, not at this angle, so he could pretend that he was just hurt and not _violated_. He needed to heal, he needed to get better, and flesh wounds would heal in time and then, maybe, then he would be able to focus on the other important thing, which was to hunt down and hurt the person who did this to him.

This. Marking him. Cutting him over and over again, cooing beside his ear how much he loved him and how he would never forget. Hands, touching him, coaxing out reactions he never wanted to give. And the blanks, oh god, why couldn't he remember. He didn't want to remember. He had to remember. He couldn't, the blindfold, the drugs, the bed, the pain, the pleasure.

Breathe.

He gasped, breathing in a lungful of the metallic scent of blood, the acrid scent of antiseptics, and perfume. Perfume? Russia. Russia was over there, looking over the equipment left by the medical staff. His scarf was over here, still draped loosely around his neck, but twined tightly in his fingers. Well, twined tightly in his right hand, at any rate. He wasn't sure if he could move his left.

Movement, out of the corner of his eye, and he jerked violently away, seeing only at the last moment the shock on England's face. It was England, just England. England frowning in that way that made him look angry but actually meant that he was concerned but feeling helpless, and wanted to put on a strong front. Those looks never lasted very long in front of him. He'd heard of the British stiff upper lip, but he'd never seen England manage it.

Today, though, England was making a wonderful effort. He shut his eyes as he felt a cool hand rest against his forehead.

"You're burning up."

"He is supposed to be on antibiotics."

That made him sit up. "No."

England frowned at him while Russia gave him that 'I'm going to pretend I don't know what you're talking about because I don't want to hear it' look, but he just glowered right back at them.

"You're sick, you need to take your medicine."

"I'm not sick! I'm just…!" hurt. Injured, wounded, bleeding and in pain.

"It is ok. You do not have to take it," said Russia matter-of-factly. "You will just have to stay in bed for longer, here, until you get better enough to leave."

Fuck.

He wanted to go home. He wanted curl up in his own bed and wake up to realize that this was all a dream, and nothing happened, and then go have breakfast at Macs.

"Amerika?"

He didn't want to take strange drugs in a foreign hospital that he didn't even know the location of. He didn't want to be so weak that he couldn't even run away. He didn't want to be so fucking terrified that he was jumping at shadows, but he did, when England tried to touch him again. He didn't want to see that crestfallen and _hurt_ look, never wanted to see it again, never wanted to see it ever, and he was just so helpless. He didn't want to be helpless. He didn't want to be crying.

He tried to reach for the anger, he tried to reach for hate, but he didn't even have a face to put to the name of the person who made him like this.

"Amerika."

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision so he could see why Russia was suddenly so close. Close, but not touching, one hand outstretched.

"We deal with this first, da?"

This. The IV. Wordlessly, he placed his left hand in Russia's. Those rough fingers moved as delicately as they did the last time they were doing this, removing the needle and bandaging his hand with that same gentleness. He found himself staring at Russia's face again, but this time, all he could see was the mark he'd left on Russia's cheek. And further down, on that pale neck, blues and purples and pinks against pale skin, the imprint of his fingers from when he'd tried to strangle the man. And still, Russia had come for him. Russia had saved him. Russia was caring for him.

Strains of 'God Save the Queen' abruptly derailed his thoughts. England fumbled for his phone, glanced at the screen, and frowned. "I need to take this. Will you be alright if I duck out for a bit?"

For a moment, he was puzzled. Well, Russia was here, wasn't he? But from the wary look England was shooting Russia's way, he realized that England was worried _because_ Russia was here. Because Russia was… Russia. But… "I'll be fine…"

England looked wholly unconvinced. "I'll be right outside. Just shout if you need me."

He hadn't noticed the tension in the room until England was gone, taking it with him. While he had always known that England disliked Russia, he hadn't realized that it was this bad between the two of them. If there was some history there, he didn't know it; history had never been his best subject.

Russia seemed to be breathing more easily now, moving a little quicker, the smile fading from his face as he diverted his concentration from putting on a front to putting on fresh bandages. He really did seem that much more gentle, that much more human, like this.

America reached out, resting his hand against the mark on Russia's face. "I'm sorry."

Maybe it was too sudden? Maybe Russia had expected him to lash out again? But Russia seemed startled, staring down at him with unreadable violet eyes.

"…it is alright. I have already forgotten."

"And also, thank you."

He thought he caught sight of something almost pained flashing across Russia's face, but it was so brief, he wondered if he'd just imagined it, because Russia was grinning widely at him.

"There is no need to thank. You are my guest. It was my duty as a host. Come, now, America, we will do your chest."

His chest? Right. It was hurting. Russia was just being a good host, helping him out like that. That was all. It hurt, so he said no more and waited patiently for Russia to finish cleaning him up, and for England to finish his call.


	19. Chapter 19

On the first night, he could not sleep. How could he? He was alone in some hospital bed in Poland. Even with the room door locked, even with the night light on, he was still jumping at shadows, every little sound jarring his frazzled nerves. England had promised that no one would enter the room unless he called for them, but England wasn't even around for the night, and there was no guarantee that they would listen.

He'd wanted to be transferred out of Poland, but he couldn't go home, not like this. The flight was too long, and there were transits, and besides, he couldn't show up like this in front of his boss. The last time he was injured, it ended up starting two wars, and he didn't need to get involved in another one, as tempting as the idea sounded. But no. Because this wasn't an attack on _America_. It was an attack on _him_, as a person, and something for the courts, not the battlefield.

He'd asked if he could spend his time recovering over at England's house, but then he was reminded that the press there was vicious and persistent, and the last thing he needed was a scandal and for the news to reach his boss before he could tell him in person. This new boss of his was a reasonable man, but he had been told to be a little discreet, and making the headlines of British tabloids was kinda not, and he really didn't want to disappoint this boss.

Eventually, he would have to tell him, but not yet. For now, his boss was still under the impression that he was enjoying a holiday in Russia.

Russia. Russia had offered to bring him back to his place to rest, but then England took him outside for a word and he never came back. He'd tried to ask England what was going on, but England just tucked him into bed and told him that he had to rest and that he was going to be alone in a Polish hospital for the night.

It was the fifth time that night that his eyes snapped open in panic, and it was only two in the morning.

"Amerika?"

Before he could even process what he was doing, his hand was under his pillow grabbing for a gun that wasn't there. No, of course not. No one in their right minds would have given him a gun, not in his mental state.

"Amerika, it is only me."

"FUCK YOU."

God. Damn it. He slumped back onto the bed, burying his face in his hands and biting his tongue to keep himself from screaming at Russia for scaring him like that. Because it would have meant admitting that he was scared, and he wasn't supposed to ever be scared. Except if it was a ghost or something, because ghosts, man, ghosts. But this wasn't a ghost, just Russia. Who'd managed to enter his room without waking him. Which meant that the room wasn't at all secure. Which meant that people could have been coming in all night while he was catching naps.

"I want to go home," he whimpered into his hands.

"You are not sleeping," observed Russia, earning him a death glare from between fingers.

"How am I supposed to sleep?" demanded America. "I'm stuck here in Poland, and no one can tell me where he is, and I don't even know what he looks like! What if he gets in? What if he comes back while I'm asleep?"

"There is no need to worry about him."

"Yea?"

"I will not let him touch you again."

It made him look. It made him really look, through the dim glow of the night light, at Russia, because there was something in that tone, in that voice, that he'd been hearing a lot more of lately. Something less guarded, something more real. _Something for him?_ Russia, who seemed tired, hiding his face in the deep shadows cast by the single point of light, seated in the hospital chair.

"Why are you even here?" he asked, willing the tension out of his body.

"You do not want me here? Then I will go."

"No, wait!"

Fuck. That had been a trap. He could just see Russia smirking at him, so he threw his pillow into the bastard's face to wipe that smirk off.

He wasn't feeling so smug, though, when Russia stood up to his full height, pillow in hand, towering over the bed. Instead of a pillow strike to the head, however, Russia merely fluffed it and motioned for him to sit up a bit so he could put the pillow back.

"It is good to see you are feeling better."

The words knocked the air out of him, and then he just had to know, had to make sure, had to find some confirmation or denial. "Don't tease me."

Violet eyes, shaded, glanced at him, then quickly away, but Russia didn't move, half-leaning on the bed. "Tease you? I am only expressing my conce…"

Just a quick touch, because it was so easy to close that distance, to swallow the last syllable falling from those lips, leaving Russia dumbfounded.

Everyone thought that he lacked situational awareness, that he couldn't 'read the atmosphere', but really, he wasn't stupid, nor was he blind. Just because he had a habit of ignoring what he wasn't interested in didn't mean that he was unaware of it. And he was interested in this: Russia had been a lot less antagonistic lately. Ever since that reset button publicity stunt… no, maybe it was from the time he got his new boss? He hadn't cared, really, before, but he was interested now.

At the meeting, Russia had been downright _nice_. He'd suspected that Russia was flirting, but now he knew. From the way Russia seemed frozen, from quick, sharp breaths that he thought he wouldn't notice, he knew.

"You… you should not…" murmured Russia, distracted, struggling to get the words out.

It was cute, really, seeing Russia blush like a schoolgirl with a crush, looking everywhere but at him. Russia liked him, didn't he? That was why he'd been so nice, that was why he'd worked so hard to save him, wasn't it? And if it was so, then,

There was nothing wrong with stealing another kiss. Nothing wrong at all.

'_I'm sorry.'_


	20. Chapter 20

The last thing he remembered was kicking Russia in the face when the man tried to convince him to go clean up before passing out. In his defense, he was tired, and all he wanted to do was sleep after all that moving around. After all, he'd been the one doing most of the work for most of the night, and he was the one who was injured. Still, he was satisfied. Sated. And he remembered. He could remember. All of it.

Well, almost. When he woke up, he'd been neatly tucked into bed, and cleaned up a bit too. And the room smelt a lot less like sex, and a bit more like antiseptic and perfume. Russia's perfume. Grinning, he snuggled the pillow. Who knew that Russia could be so considerate? And comfortable. And good. He would have fallen asleep had he not heard a familiar sigh at his bedside.

Without opening his eyes, he called out, "Hey, England, I wanna Big Breakfast and coffee."

For a moment, there was silence, and he wondered if he'd gotten it wrong. What if this was a stranger by his bed? What if it was Poland?

"You twat, are you actually awake or are you just sleep-talking?"

He couldn't help laughing, partly because England's English was just so weird sometimes, and partly out of relief that he'd been right. It was just England, frowning down at him, those massive eyebrows drawn nearly together into one giant fuzzy caterpillar. He just couldn't stop giggling.

"You are an idiot," stated England huffily, trying to discreetly cover up his eyebrows. "But it's good to see that you're better."

America stuck out his tongue at him. "You sound just like Russia."

"_Russia?_"

Ah, right, England really didn't like Russia, did he? "He saved me, you know?" he told England.

England looked as though he was about to say something, but then he froze for a moment before turning away, looking perturbed. "He was here last night, wasn't he?"

How did he know? A cascade of scenarios flashed through his head and he flushed bright red when he realized that England, who was once a parental figure to him, albeit a long time ago, but you know, some of these things, yea, was standing next to him in the bed in which he had been having sex just a few hours ago. And England probably knew. "I… he…" stuttered America. As shameless as the world thought he was, he just wasn't comfortable knowing that England probably knew what he'd been doing in that bed at night. God, it was embarrassing.

But England obviously had other interpretations about his suddenly speechlessness, whipping around to stare at him in obvious concern that made him want to vanish through the floor. "Did he do anything to you?"

"Nothing I didn't want," he blurted out in reply before catching himself, completely mortified.

"America!"

"Look, he saved me, ok? I just wanted to…"

"Thank him with your body? Are you living in a romance novel? Without even getting all the facts straight, you just…"

"What facts? He rescued me, didn't he?" Didn't he? America felt a sudden chill. What if things weren't as he remembered? What if he'd imagined it all, and Russia had merely taken advantage of his confusion? But then again, England wouldn't let Russia near him at all if he hadn't contributed in some way during his rescue, right? "Didn't he… save me?"

"L… look, just, uh, forget that I said anything."

He jerked away when England tried to touch him, and it didn't make sense, because he thought he'd gotten over this, after last night, because Russia had touched him all over and it was alright, so why not England, when Russia… "He… he saved me, didn't he?" he repeated, begging, praying, hoping that he hadn't just done something so fucking stupid like…

"Certainly, he was the person who carried you out here," said England carefully, arms crossed defensively across his chest.

"But?"

"I don't think you're in any condition…"

"England!" He stared into those guilty green eyes and watched England's resolve crumble. "I need to know."

England took a deep breath, and then drew up a chair. "I need to stress that investigations are still ongoing, but things don't look very good. Are you sure you want to hear this now, America?"

No. He didn't want to. He wanted to believe that Russia did what he did because there was something there, something he thought he felt, when Russia whispered his name over and over again through the night. But it was Russia.

"Tell me everything."


End file.
